Chuck Made Them Do It
by Eris O'Reilly
Summary: Slash! Lots and lots of Sam/Dean sex; The boys can't keep their hands off each other, and they both blame Chuck for it.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: _I do not own Supernatural. I'm merely playing with the boys for awhile.

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**Chuck Made Them Do It**

**Chapter 1**

Dean thought it was going to be a normal day. A regular salt-and-burn—some research, some grave digging—normal. Even when the ghost showed up halfway through the salting of its bones to throw Dean against a giant statue of Jesus, that was normal (if unwelcome). Sam burnt the bones; the ghost went up. Dean wobbled all the way back to the car, and they made it back to their motel. Totally normal.

Except when Sam insisted on checking Dean for injuries ("I'm fine, Sam, stop poking at me!"), although not necessarily unusual, it did make Dean raise an eyebrow. Finally, he gave in and let Sam strip him of his T-shirt.

"See?" Dean said, "Bruises. Nothing cracked, nothing broken. I'll be sore for a day but that's all."

But when Sam ran a hand, fingertips barely touching skin, up Dean's sides, that's when Dean started suspecting things weren't normal. Maybe even wrong.

"Sam?"

"I was worried about you, Dean," Sam said, and looked at Dean with large, expressive eyes (_Puppy dog eyes_, Dean thought). Dean furrowed his brows, but Sam continued, "You hit that statue _so hard_, and I was worried."

The way Sam emphasized 'so hard' made _Dean_ worried. And Sam was creeping closer, crawling on the bed towards Dean like some panther on the prowl, all slinking movements and muscled grace. Dean thought that maybe he was in trouble.

And then Sam whispered, "Oh Dean," only inches away from Dean's face, and Dean _knew_ he was in trouble, and that's when Sam leaned in.

It took a moment for Dean to register that they were kissing, really kissing—all lips and tongue and wet and oh god, when did Sam get good at this? And something snapped inside Dean, just a tiny little _ker-snik!_ and Dean was giving as good as he was getting. He would show his little brother who the sexual god was in the family.

And it was _hot_ and it was _good_ and it was sexy—they were pawing at each other and mauling each other with fingertips and lips, stripping each other quickly because clothes just got in the way and the room was too hot as it was, so who needed clothes? And when Sam touched Dean's cock, he thought he might die, and when Dean finally touched Sam's, he thought Sam would die, and they were making all sorts of noises, low panting ones and loud yelping ones and long drawn out moans and fervent repetitions of "Oh yeah," "Sam," and "Dean!" And when they came it was almost together, Sam going off just a bit before Dean, so they were coming down together and it was good.

So, naturally, in the morning Dean woke up, took one look at Sam's naked form curled up around Dean, and called Chuck.

"Chuck," Dean growled when the phone stopped ringing.

A groggy voice from the other side said, "Dean? It's six in the morning here—"

Dean interrupted him, "What did you do?"

Chuck was silent. After a moment, Dean prompted, "Chuck?"

"I didn't think it would take."

Now it was Dean's turn to be silent. "What wouldn't take?"

"The story!" Chuck exclaimed. "It was just a fanfic—it wasn't really a vision or anything. I thought it was just for fun!"

Dean cut through Chuck's babbling. "You wrote a story. About me having gay _incestuous_ sex with my _brother_?" The last bit was yelled, and Sam shifted in his sleep. Dean froze for a moment, but Sam didn't wake. He tried to take calming breaths—mostly to keep from waking Sam than to abate his anger. It seemed to help a little.

In the tense, awkward silence after Dean's outburst, Chuck said quietly, "There was a contest."

"A contest," Dean repeated.

"Yeah," Chuck went on. "It's hosted by a distinguished fan site, so I thought 'What the hell?' and—"

"Chuck?" Dean growled.

"Yes?" Chuck squeaked.

"I'm going to kill you."

Dean hung up the phone and sighed.

END


	2. Chapter 2

**Chuck Made Them Do It**

**Chapter 2**

It was 6:23 in the morning, and Dean was ready to commit murder. He didn't bother with calming breaths or counting to ten, he just looked at Sam and his rage soared to new heights. Not because Dean was angry with Sam—on the contrary, Dean felt sorry for his brother. Sam was merely a by-product of what Dean was really mad at, what Dean was ready to commit murder for.

Sam was nestled right next to Dean, on the same bed.

That same bed they had sex on the night before.

Very gay, very incestuous, illegal sex.

And it was all Chuck's fault.

Dean could see it now. He would wake up Sam, and they would head out to Chuck's place. They would politely ring the doorbell and wait for Chuck to answer, and as soon as his weasely, bearded face appeared—BAM! Dean would shoot Chuck right between those baby-blue eyes.

Dean chuckled softly under his breath. Oh yeah, right between the eyes.

Or maybe he would stab him. Right in the gut, making sure to twist the blade before wrenching it out. Yes, that would work, too.

He mulled over possibilities for a minute, and finally decided that he would make his decision in the car. It was a day and a half drive to Chuck's, so he would have plenty of time.

Dean looked over at Sam. The kid was still snoring away, completely oblivious to the absolute wreck of the world that awaited him when was conscious. Dean considered a moment. Might as well destroy that peaceful bubble now.

"Wakey, wakey, Sam," Dean nudged the younger Winchester in the shoulder. Sam cracked one sleep encrusted eye open.

"What?" he asked. Then, "What time is it?"

Dean glanced at the clock. "6:28."

Sam groaned. "Why'd you wake me up so early?" He grunted, shifted his weight, then stopped. His eyes opened all the way and all traces of sleep vanished. "Why are you in my bed?

Dean crossed his arms and shook his head. "Your bed is over there. This is my bed."

Sam looked around. Sure enough, his bed—so claimed because his bag was on it, was completely untouched and definitely not slept in. "What—how?" he said inelegantly.

Dean just frowned at Sam. Sam looked confused, then a flash of remembrance, and finally settled into gut-wrenching panic.

He jumped from Dean's bed and exploded, "Holy fuck, Dean! What the hell?" Without even waiting for Dean's answer, Sam started to pull on clothes.

Dean waved his cell phone at Sam. "I already checked up on it."

Sam stopped, one foot halfway into his pants. "How the hell do you check up on something like, like this?" He was an equal mix of rage and blind panic.

Dean waited a moment for Sam to finish dressing. The kid even put on his jack and socks before he calmed down a bit. He answered him.

"Chuck."

The word stopped Sam in his tracks. Confusion reared back on his face. "Chuck?"

Dean nodded, "Chuck made us do it."

Sam frowned at Dean. "How?"

Dean cleared his throat. "Apparently there was a contest."

"A contest?" Sam repeated. Dean rolled his eyes. Sometimes Sam asked too many questions. Couldn't the kid just accept that Chuck is a crazy, perverted menace and that they had to kill him? Dean waited for Sam to stumble on the answer himself.

"Why would Chuck enter a contest—Oh. Oh God." Sam gagged. "That's sick."

Dean shrugged. "Yeah. Now let's go kill him."

Surprisingly, Sam nodded. "Yeah. Okay." He turned and grabbed his bag.

Dean blinked. Sam stood there, bag over one shoulder, and stared at Dean.

Dean shook himself out of his surprise. He was wholeheartedly expecting to have to fight off Sam's "But Dean! Murdering humans is _wrong_," arguments.

"Sure," Dean said. "We'll go kill Chuck… right after I shower." He got up and walked, sans clothing, to the bathroom.

It dawned on Dean, halfway to the tiny cubicle of a washroom, that he didn't know why he needed a shower first. Yes, he was sticky and dirty from last night (grave digging and incestuous sex seemed to take a toll on one's hygiene), but really, in another situation Dean might have skipped the shower. He had before—like after the Double Mint twins, where Sam had wrinkled his nose at him for sixty miles. So, why the sudden need for clean right now?

He was in the shower, soaping up, when he heard the curtain pull back on the bar. He spun around.

"Sammy?"

Sam, completely naked, stepped into the tub and closed the curtain. "S'called sharing, Dean," he said and leaned over him.

Dean realized just how small that shower was and how close Sam was all of a sudden. He could feel the heat radiating off his brother's body as Sam reached around and grabbed the shampoo bottle.

"Want me to?" Sam indicated Dean's hair.

Dean sputtered, "Oh God," which Sam took as an affirmative and immediately started lathering the shampoo into foamy peaks on Dean head. Dean groaned into the touch. He breathed out, "Sammy," and closed his eyes.

And, once again, like a switch was thrown in the deep, dark recesses of their psyche, Sam and Dean were kissing each other, mouths devouring and hands stroking and pulling and caressing in punishing ecstasy. The water sluiced between them, making their bodies slick. They slid against each other and the feeling was incredible, glorious even.

Sam trailed his hands down Dean's scalp to his face, his neck, and rested them on his chest, leaving a soapy line in their wake. Dean threw his arms up and around his brother's tall shoulders, not quite laced behind his neck, but not quite dangling loosely either.

It was Sam that broke the kiss. "Dean," he said.

Dean opened lust-fogged eyes. He could barely hum out an inquisitive grunt before Sam was dropping to his knees. The older brother raised his eyebrows.

"I wanna," Sam said, and stopped. He swooped in, arms hugging Dean's waist and face nuzzling the water slick hairs that trailed down from his belly button to his crotch. Dean gasped, a sound barely heard over the pounding water from the showerhead, but Sam could feel the exhalation of air from his face's resting place against Dean's abdomen. He dropped his head lower and began showering Dean's thighs with kisses. "I wanna," he mumbled again, into Dean's flesh.

Dean braced a hand against the shower wall and whispered, "Yeah," as he slipped his other hand tightly into Sam's hair. A small voice in the back of his mind wondered just what _exactly_ did he think he was going to do with his brother, but it was mostly drowned out by exuberant thoughts of 'Sammy's gonna, Sammy's gonna, Sammy's gonna…!"

And Sammy went down on Dean.

Later, Dean would wonder if Sam was skilled, or just overly enthusiastic, but in the moment when Sam opened his mouth wide and took Dean inside of him, all Dean could coherently think was "Damn." Sam's mouth was hot and tight, and he was really careful with his teeth, which Dean appreciated. Sam started slow at first, just taking Dean's head into his mouth and sucking on it like a lollipop, but then Sam grew braver and tried to take in more of Dean. He got most of the way there, too, before he choked and had to back off. Dean didn't care. He was wrapped up with the sensation of wet and heat and tight around his dick. Even the choking gasp from Sam was really hot.

Sam worked him, then, drawing one hand over what bit he couldn't get with his mouth, and he tongued and he licked and he sucked Dean until he could feel his brother stiffen, a small drawing tightness that Sam knew meant he would orgasm soon. He kept going, a tiny faster perhaps, eager to taste Dean on his tongue.

Sam never pulled away, Dean noticed. Not when Dean could barely keep from jerking his hips forward into Sam's warm, wet mouth. He was going to cum soon, and Sammy was still going at it, still working him into a frenzy. He tried to warn him, muttering, "Sammy, I—" over and over again. And Sammy licked the vein that ran along the underneath of Dean's shaft one too many times, and Dean was jerking, rising upwards and everything was white for just a second. Sam was still licking him, suckling him, but tenderly now; long, slow, sure strokes of the tongue.

Dean unwound his hand from Sam's hair, not realizing how tightly he had been grasping it. He would have muttered an apology, but Sam looked up at him with lazy, satisfied eyes and Dean realized in the middle of all this, Sam came, too. He took a step back (as much as he could in the small shower) and helped Sam to his feet.

They scrubbed their bodies and shampooed their hair. They turned off the shower and exited the stall.

When they were dressed and packed, they turned to look at each other. It was Sam that broke their long silence since their time in the shower.

"Yeah, okay. Let's go kill Chuck."

Dean grinned.

END


	3. Chapter 3

**Chuck Made Them Do It**

**Chapter 3**

In a matter of minutes Sam and Dean were packed and hauling their bags to the Impala. Dean left Sam to the logistics of cramming their duffel bags and backpacks into the already full trunk (yes, Dean really did _need_ all those weapons, and those magazines _did_ live in the back seat), while the older brother walked to the main building to return their room key. He placed the key on the counter. The attendant waggled her eyebrows suggestively, glancing out the window toward his bother disappearing into the maw of the trunk, then back to Dean. Dean arched an eyebrow at the attendant, shrugged, and walked back outside.

What the hell was that all about? Were they making too much noise or something?

Dean stopped, mid-step, several feet away from the car. They _had_ made a lot of noise last night, and he _knew_ he was uncomfortably noisy in the shower this morning. That, and their room was right next to the front desk area.

Oh God, Dean thought. They really _could_ hear us.

He walked the rest of the way to his car, opened the driver side door and got inside. Sam was waiting for him in the passenger seat, buckled up with a book on his lap, all ready to go. He put on his own seat belt, kissed Sam, and started the engine.

It wasn't until they were stuck in the turn lane to get on the highway that Dean realized what had happened.

"Son of a bitch!" He cursed.

Sam looked up from his novel. "What? Did you forget something?"

Dean looked Sam square in the eye. "Did I kiss you?"

Sam blinked several times, startled. "What?'

"Did I kiss you?" Dean ground between clenched teeth, "Back at the motel?"

Sam still looked confused, but after a moment a look of horrified recognition settled on his features. "Oh god. Yeah, you did."

"Son of a bitch," Dean said again.

"You don't think," Sam started, his breathing already increasing into panic, "That Chuck is…"

Dean growled, but said nothing. That was all the answer Sam needed. "Oh God."

The light finally turned green, and Dean was able to pull the car out onto the entrance ramp of the I-80. At some point, Sam very carefully turned his attention toward his book while Dean continued driving in tense silence.

Could Chuck _really_ retaliate against them like that?

Well, there was this morning in the shower…

_Shit,_ Dean thought. He should have never told Chuck that they were going to kill him.

Luck held on their side, though. They drove for a few peaceful hours without any strange urges coming over either of them. Dean drove and hummed along to the radio, and Sam read his book and idly stroked his brother's thigh with his free hand.

It was approximately two hours and twenty-six minutes into the drive that Dean realized Sam's hand was in his lap. He stopped humming, mid-chorus to Blue Oyster Cult's "Burning for You," to look down at the large hand rubbing lightly on the denim of his jeans.

Cautiously, Dean ventured, "Sam?"

Sam didn't look up from his book. "Hm?"

"You're touching my leg."

Sam nodded absently, then with a start threw his book down and wrenched his hand away. "Jesus! How long have I been doing that?"

Dean carefully kept his eyes on the road. "I don't know. I just now noticed it."

Sam gripped his offending hand by the wrist as if Dean somehow had burnt him. He was quiet for a moment. Quiet enough Dean risked a glance at him. Sam was staring at Dean with wide eyes.

"This is just going to keep happening, isn't it?"

Dean shrugged, slowly. He was suddenly extremely frustrated with himself. They were on a mission to kill Chuck for putting them into this highly illicit, awkward mess, and yet Dean couldn't help missing the feeling of his brother's hand on his thigh.

What was wrong with him?

Instead of dwelling too long on uncomfortable emotions, Dean narrowed his focus to the mission at hand with the precision only a Hunter could muster. They were going to kill Chuck. They were going to continue down the I-80 until they hit Pennsylvania and then they were going to turn south onto Hwy 15 and go to Chuck's house. Then kill him. Then maybe eat some lunch.

It was quiet in the car while Dean drove. His constant mantra of 'kill Chuck, kill Chuck,' kept all evil, unnecessary thoughts at bay. They were about halfway through the drive when Sam's voice whispered very, _very_ close to his ear, "Pull over."

Dean swiveled his head, nearly smacking Sam with his nose. Sam was leaning towards him, so close his breath puffed against Dean's neck. Dean glanced back to the road quickly, "Sam, what?"

"I said, 'Pull over'."

And Dean did just that.

Sam didn't wait until the car rolled to a complete stop before he was grabbing Dean's face and pulling him in for a kiss. It was wet and moist, but Dean was more than a little freaked out to fully enjoy it. He pulled away to make sure the car was in park before rallying on Sam again.

"Just what the hell do you think—."

Sam was kissing him again before he could finish his question. He pushed his tongue deep into Dean's mouth, dragging out a moan from the older brother. Dean really couldn't help himself. With Sam's hands threaded through his hair and his mouth hot and insistent against his own, he went against his better judgment and kissed back.

The two of them together—it was good. Better than Dean had in a long, _long_ time. Sam was dragging Dean towards him, closer together, mouths still attached. Dean fumbled for his seat belt, unclicked it, and tried to move with him. He ran one hand up Sam's side, up to his chest while the other braced against the back of the seat.

Sam pulled away abruptly and gasped out, "Back seat?"

That sounded like a great idea to Dean.

They scrambled out of the car, Dean careful about incoming traffic, flung open the back door of the Impala and crawled inside. Dean barely shut his door before Sam was all over him again. Magazines crunched under bent knees and hands as Dean gave in to it—gave in to his brother. He let Sam push his jacket off his shoulders and pull his T-shirt up to his neck. While Dean fought to get the rest of the material up over his head, Sam leaned in to mouth at his nipple. Dean groaned. Sparks of fire spread from both points on his chest as Sam fondled the other nub with a free hand. Dean's hand was back in Sam's hair, encouraging him. He liked having his chest played with, and with no shortage of girls who would deny him anything, he usually got it. But this was different. Differed because it was Sam and Sam knew, instinctively, how hard and how soft he could go. Knew just what would drive Dean crazy. Knew, because it was _Sam._

"Sammy," he moaned, and Sammy came up for air. He nuzzled his way along Dean's jaw line. Dean slid his hands down Sam's back until he reached the hemline of his younger brother's shirt. When his hands met flesh, Sam groaned softly into the skin of Dean's neck and arched his back, molding his body against Dean's. Dean stroked him for a long moment, taking in the sounds and feeling of his brother as he dragged his fingertips across his skin. He relished what he could make Sam do with just his hands. Sam collapsed against Dean, practically purring from the older man's petting.

Dean glanced to the floorboards beneath him and his gaze landed on the crunched and wrinkled magazines they had swept from the seat in their scramble to get in the car. One had fallen open, revealing a centerfold spread of a hot redhead going down on a well-endowed tattooed man. And Dean had an idea.

"Sammy," Dean whispered, and he surprised himself by the amount of awe his voice held. He placed one hand back in Sam's hair again and petted. "Roll over."

Sam looked at him, mild confusion blinking in his eyes. He muttered an inquisitive noise.

Dean started again. With one hand resting in his brother's mop of dark hair, the other drifted to his hip and grasped at him. "I want to… I wanna," he breathed out, tugging at his brother. "Roll over, Sammy."

As spacious as the Impala's backseat was, it was a tight squeeze for two fully grown men to be rolling around. Sam's elbow caught Dean in the ribs and Dean was pretty sure he accidentally kneed Sam a little too close to the inner thigh for comfort. But they finally flipped themselves to Dean's liking: Sam spread out on his back, one leg on the floor boards and the other braced on the wall of the car. Dean lay on top of him, supporting most of his bodyweight on his arm wedged between Sam and the seat back.

Sam looked up at Dean with half-lidded eyes smoldering with lust that went straight to Dean's cock. Groaning deep in his throat, Dean dragged his free hand down Sam's chest to his stomach. Even through his clothing, Sammy was warm, really warm. He panted and twitched underneath Dean's fingertips and Dean wondered when he ever got to see a sight this good in his life. Sam underneath him, moaning and aching for Dean's touch, Dean's mouth. Dean alone—the thought did something to Dean. He sat up from his crouch over Sam and settled between his brother's knees.

When he reached for the button on Sam's pants, Sam sat up enough to look questioningly at his brother. "Dean?"

Dean made some nonsensical noise and told Sam to hush. He didn't want to get interrupted. He undid Sam's pants and, with Sam's help, slid the garment—boxers and all—down Sam's hips until his erection sprang free. Dean took a deep breath and lowered his head.

Sam gasped, "Dean," and flopped his head against the seat when Dean put his mouth on his cock. It wasn't a bad taste; certainly not as bad as Dean might have expected. It tasted like salty skin and Sam, and really wasn't bad at all. He ran his tongue on the underside of the shaft until he reached the head again, then mouthed it, enclosing the whole tip within the circle of his lips and swirling his tongue around against the trapped flesh. He had to hold down Sam's hips from bucking into his mouth farther than Dean wanted to go, and from somewhere outside his pinpointed focus of Sam and skin and tongue, he heard Sam crying out—almost chanting—"Dean," "Oh God," and "Yes."

It was hard to smile around a cock in your mouth, so Dean decided to push on instead. He tried opening his jaw and taking in more of Sam. Sam quickly hit the back of Dean's throat, and Dean was pretty sure he wasn't going to be able to swallow anymore of his brother past his gag reflex, so he fisted the rest of Sam's shaft that his mouth couldn't reach. He worked slowly, carefully, concentrating on keeping his hand in time with his mouth, and bobbed up and down until he had a rhythm. Sam was a series of grunts and moans now, and Dean had to brace his entire free arm against Sam's stomach to keep him for thrusting too much for Dean to handle.

When Sam's abdominal muscles began tightening and twitch, Dean sped up his pace. Sam was close—really close by the rigidity of his shaft. He tongued Sam's slit, then stroked the vein on the underside of his cock until Sam cried out incoherently one last time, and Dean's mouth was flooded with heat and salt. He swallowed as much as he could and milked Sam until the twitching and bucking stopped. With one last swipe of the tongue to Sam's cock, Dean released him from his mouth and crawled back up Sam's body to collapse on his chest.

Sam buried a hand in Dean's hair and began stroking Dean's scalp in a way that quickly made him want a nap. They lay there for a moment while both caught their breaths. It was Sam that silently urged Dean to sit up so he could kiss him, and when their tongues met Sam whimpered at the taste of himself in Dean's mouth.

They sat back, Dean still on top of Sam and Sam squished into the seat. Sam's hand was still in Dean's hair and Dean had an arm looped around Sam's middle. Even in the cramped confines of the Impala, Dean realized how comfortable he was, how good pressing against Sam's side felt, the way it made him feel.

In a really odd way, it kind of felt like home.

Sam kissed him again, slowly, and they lazily moved their mouths together. Dean couldn't remember ever being kissed like that—usually everything was fast and hard for him—there was no time for drawn out tenderness. But Sam drew it out of him, and Dean let him.

But if there was one thing that Dean had learned was that tenderness didn't last, so he pulled away. "We need to get going."

Sam nodded absently and together they shuffled enough that Dean could get off of Sam and pull up his jeans. Dean crawled to the door and climbed out while Sam fixed his own clothes. He crawled out of the car only a moment or two after Dean. They looked at each other over the roof, and an understanding passed between them.

They got back into their respective seats. Dean turned on the engine.

Interlude over. Back to the real world.


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Note: _Apparently, I completely lost track of where Chuck's home is in comparison to where the boys are. Sorry for the disconnect.

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**Chuck Made Them Do It**

**Chapter 4**

Of course, Dean had barely started the engine before Sam was all over him again like a puberty stricken rabbit dosed with Viagra. "Sam, what the—?" Dean exclaimed before falling into an incoherent mess as Sam stuck his hand down Dean's pants. It took an embarrassingly short time to bring Dean off, of which he had several comebacks to justify himself, (the best of which being he was already about to explode), but Sam kissed him sloppily, forcing all words out of Dean's head. Grinning like an idiot, Dean buckled his seat belt and shifted the Impala into drive. He pulled back onto the highway. Sam went back to his book.

They had a few hours of peaceful quiet before Sam's growling stomach broke the silence, followed by Sam's whiny, "I'm hungry."

Dean sighed and kept his eyes peeled for the closest eatery. He pulled off twelve minutes later and followed the signs to a small Mom and Pop diner, the kind that seemed to sprout like weeds all over America. Sam sighed audibly when Dean pulled into a parking space, but otherwise kept all bitching to a minimum as they got out to the car and entered the restaurant. With a similarity that in itself was almost supernatural, a nondescript, middle-aged, overweight waitress approached their table within minutes of their sitting down, took their drink orders and handed out much stained paper menus.

Sam ordered a salad. Dean ordered a bacon cheeseburger with fries.

They waited for the food to arrive before talking about anything important. Namely, Chuck.

"Do you think he's writing about us right now?" Sam asked in his whispery 'I smell a conspiracy' voice.

Dean shrugged, face grim. "Most likely. The little bitch probably has something really nasty up his sleeve for us, too."

Sam shuddered. He didn't need to say anything. Dean knew how creepy it was. As far as Dean was concerned, Chuck had gone completely off the deep end with this incestuous gay crap. And for what? A fanfic? Dean learned what those were when they originally started hunting for Chuck a few years back. And then he got an hour long seminar on the crafting and appreciating thereof from Becky when they met her. And for kicks, Dean popped into a panel discussing the practice at that Supernatural convention they were tricked into attending.

So yeah. He knew all about fanfiction. Which made what Chuck was doing all that much worse in his mind.

"I hope it was frickin' _worth_ it," Dean muttered into his fries, visions of guns and gutting dancing in his head.

"What?" Sam asked.

Dean shook his head. "Nothing."

They returned to their food in silence. Dean was on his last french fry when Sam cleared his throat loudly. Dean looked up.

"How long are you going to do that?" Sam asked, eyebrow raised in cynicism.

Dean blinked. "Do what?"

"Rub on my leg like that."

Dean stopped. He took situation of himself. Sure enough, he had been unconsciously rubbing his leg against Sam's like a couple playing footsy. He jerked his leg back to his side of the booth.

"Holy shit, Sam!" Dean gasped. "How long _have_ I been doing that?"

Sam thought. "Umm, since our food got here?"

Dean glanced at his watch. Half an hour. "Holy shit," Dean repeated.

Of course, Sam jinxed it. "What is Chuck going to make us do this time?" he whined, rolling his eyes. A silence descended on them. They looked at each other for a moment. Then, they stood up simultaneously from the table. Sam hooked a thumb over his shoulder and said, "Bathroom." Dean dug into his pockets, pulled out a wad of cash, and threw it on the table. He took off in a mad dash after his brother, barely registering their waitress's grunt of surprise.

Like in the shower that morning, once they were in the men's room, their minds switched to autopilot. Sam leapt on Dean, mouth plastered to his like they were welded together. Dean tangled his fists into Sam's hair, a small part of himself both hating and reveling in that his little brother was so much taller than he was. Sam clutched at Dean, hands twisting in the material of his T-shirt underneath his leather jacket. He thrust his hips against him, a low moan echoing in the back of his throat.

Then they heard talking from behind the door. They stared at each other—wide eyed and breathing hard. "We should probably lock the door," Sam said.

"Good idea," Dean muttered behind Sam's back as the taller man went to do just that. Dean looked around. What the hell was he doing? Having sex in some greasy, dirty diner bathroom like some addict? And with Sam no less. No, if he and Sam were going to have sex at all, it was going to be somewhere _classy,_ like an upscale hotel room, or maybe the Impala.

Sam was back, running finger through Dean's hair. "I want," he moaned. All thoughts of classy flew out the window.

Dean maneuvered Sam to the sink counter. He pressed into him until he knew his brother was leaning against it, and they pawed and petted each other until they started pulling off clothes. Jacket's and shirts piled up on the grungy countertop. Bare chest to bare chest, Dean looked up at Sam and hesitated. It was one thing to appear fully naked in a shower for a surprise blowjob, but it was quite another to undress your own brother in some sleazy diner and ask if you could fuck him in the ass. Which was the exact moment Dean realized that _that_what was going to happen.

He was going to fuck Sam.

Sam must have realized that too, but showed no signs of apprehension about it. He grabbed Dean's face, kissed him, and started undoing his own belt buckle. Dean watched as he kicked his shoes off and lowered his jeans and boxers in one fluid motion. His cock was hard and standing at attention.

Dean looked at his brother in all his naked glory, then looked down at his socks. "Dude. You're leaving your socks on?" he questioned.

"Dude," Sam mimicked, "this floor is _gross_."

Dean scoffed. "You're such a girl, Sam."

Sam frowned. "No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

Huffing, he turned his nose up in the air. "Whatever." Softening, he looked back at his brother. "Kiss me?

"Yeah, okay. Sure."

And so he did.

They kissed and pawed and groped until Sam was flushed and panting and Dean was sweating with desire. Sam opened Dean's pants and stroked him to full hardness. Groaning, Dean grabbed Sam's hips and turned him around. He rubbed against his backside and his skin was so hot and so smooth. Sam gasped, bracing his hands against the mirror, completely bent over now, thrusting himself against Dean.

Even in his lust-induced fog, Dean had sense of mind enough that if he plowed in unprepared, he could really hurt Sam (not to mention himself). He fumbled a hand into his jeans pocket—nothing.

"Sam," he whispered. "Do you have—um…"

"Lotion," Sam finished for him, grabbing for his discarded jacket as he spoke. He tossed the small white bottle behind him, knowing Dean would catch it.

Dean flipped open the cap and squirted a healthy amount onto his fingertips. He reached his finger into Sam, and wiggled and stroked and moved until Sam was gasping and twitching and begging, "Pleas, please, please." So Dean emptied the rest of the small bottle onto his cock and he entered Sam and Sam was still begging "Please more," And when he started to move Sam moved with him, meeting him, and it was tight and hot—so very, very hot, and he was being squeezed from all sides in a way he never thought possible.

And Sam was really crying out now, making all kinds little gasps and moans, cutting off as soon as Dean thrust in full tilt only to start back up against when Dean slid partially out.

Dean was chanting, crouched low over Sam's body, holding his brother's waist tightly against himself. He slid one hand around Sam's front and found him hard and leaking. He fisted him, and stroked in time to his own thrusts. Sam choked out a gasp so loud that Dean looked up and caught their entwined reflections in the mirror. He stared, transfixed at their combined images, thrusting and moving together in time. Sam's face was flushed in the mirrors, and his eyes black and foggy as they too stared into Dean's.

With a shout, Dean came. He fell, gasping against Sam's back, vision going dark for a moment. Finally, Sam grunted beneath him.

"Mm, what?" Dean asked.

"You're heavy," Sam answered, and twisted out from underneath him. Dean caught himself on the counter, and carefully stood up, not trusting the strength of his legs after that amazing orgasm. He took a moment to recollect himself, then looked at Sam.

Sam was already pulling on his jeans. He had his back turned to Dean. Dean frowned.

"Sam?" Dean ventured. "Are we—I mean, I'm—Are you?" He couldn't say it. But Sam got his meaning. He turned and looked at Dean for a long moment before bending back to him. He kissed him, slow and hard, and Dean really liked the way Sam tasted. Sam pulled back.

"Yeah, we're good. But I'd really like to leave this diner now."

Dean jumped up. He had completely forgotten where they were. With a panicked glance in Sam's direction, he quickly started pulling on his discarded clothing. He hated pulling his boxers up with his cock still sticky with lotion and Sam, but he wanted out of that bathroom as quickly as possible. Sam apparently did too, because in a matter of a minute they were both dressed and unlocking the restroom door.

Their waitress stood on the other side, hands on her hips and a scowl to shame a vampire on her face. She growled one word.

"_Out._"

The boys squeaked and hurried towards the exit. Everyone was looking at them—even the dishwasher boy stood near the entrance to the kitchen, arms still soapy with suds, starting with hate at their retreating figures.

As they reached the exit, Dean glanced over to the line of booths up against the front windows. A girl in the farthest boot grinned broadly at him and flashed two thumbs up.

Dean winced and exited the restaurant, Sam hot on his heels.

* * *

Chapter 5 is coming soon, promise!


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